Green Fields (Book 4): Extinction

by Adrienne Lecter

  “You don’t have to babysit me,” I told Jason as he waited for us after making it through the first row of stalls. “And neither do you,” I added to Martinez.

  “Got nothing better to do,” Jason confided. “But if you want to peruse the goods on your own, we can meet up again in an hour. Still got to show you the rest.”

  So it came that, five minutes later, I was on my own, losing Martinez to a display of guitars and other musical instruments. Who’d have thought that our medic—who couldn’t sing worth shit—was a veritable virtuoso on the acoustic guitar? And while I might have ragged on him for wanting to pick up something that wasn’t exactly a versatile weapon, I could see why he’d never let on that he could play. When survival was all that counted, whimsical hobbies like that had to take a backseat. But now, with the cars, we each had a little space to call our own, for more than weapons, ammo, and a spare set of gear.

  Unlike with the scavengers camped out on the runway, the crowd here was an almost equal mix of males and females. Everyone was armed, but it was easy to pick up the scavengers by their more utilitarian gear, compared to shorts, skirts, and sneakers on what I presumed were the residents. As I kept weaving through the crowd, picking up snippets of conversation here and there, I realized that Dispatch was a lot closer to what used to be civilization than the settlements were—at least what we’d seen so far. At first, I’d been tempted to think that the residents here were mostly split up into two groups—whores and guards—but that was plain wrong. There was trade going on everywhere, and not just of wares. Within minutes I saw people offering every skill imaginable, from seamstresses to cooks, leather workers to smiths, carpenters to painters. Anything that could be built or fabricated by hand was on sale, signs displaying how many weeks work on commission would take. A new sheath for a knife, upholstery for car seats, the odd tailored windbreaker—everything was for sale. But also barbers to take care of a much-needed haircut that wasn’t just your buddy butchering your ‘do with a knife; nurses and doctors treating the odd sprain or sore tooth. I even saw a nail salon, all of the girls in the stall busy—less with painting nails and doing gel fillers, but taking care of ingrown nails and small injuries that didn’t quite require a nurse, but needed to be taken care of nevertheless. I was tempted to treat myself to some pampering, but if I was honest, the idea of a stranger touching me while I was surrounded by yet more strangers didn’t quite make me feel all warm and cozy.

  Besides, with only the clothes on my back and my weapons with me, I could hardly pay for it.

  For about half an hour I did really good about keeping my hands to myself, and far enough away from the stalls to draw anyone’s attention. It was easy to blend in as, contrary to when we were out in the field and I looked like a small, scrawny doll next to the guys, even in full gear, here there were a lot of women, even those obviously not from Dispatch. I figured they must be traders. Jason had mentioned that since winter, a few trade routes had started to establish themselves. That’s how the different settlements kept in touch with each other. Apparently the traders were considered safer than us scavengers, even if they couldn’t usually get their hands on the exclusive stuff. Still a dangerous life, but probably better suited for people with families who didn’t feel like being part of a settlement. I felt a hint of resentment come up inside of me at the idea that while we did the heavy lifting, they got the open doors, but I knew that it was nonsense—and bred from the very same prejudice that I’d ranted about to the people in Harristown.

  It was a small stall in the middle of a row that finally made me stop, my mouth watering at the display of food. All baked goods, and most of them sweet, judging from the scent perfuming the air. My mind immediately slammed into danger mode, but even knowing that anything sweet could be contaminated wasn’t enough to make me walk on. There were plenty of people eating the cakes and pastries, and I was sure that whoever had made them knew how not to turn their entire clientele into an undead menace.

  Nate would likely have laughed his ass off at me salivating over sweets like this, but then he had the better reason to stay well clear of anything that might be contaminated. I would simply die, a debatable outcome for a mouthful of bliss. Even should I return as one of the walking undead, it wouldn’t be for some time after getting infected. He, on the other hand, would likely kill half our group if he insta-converted, nothing shy of a direct head shot stopping him. But Nate wasn’t here, and my spiteful side considered that it would serve him right to have to shoot me before I turned because of that asshole order of his. The whorehouse, seriously?

  “All our pastries are clean,” the woman behind the counter called out, startling me. She was in her late fifties, kind eyes in an otherwise hard face. I considered just ignoring her and turning away, but then stepped up to the display, cursing myself for being such a weak-willed nitwit.

  “That wasn’t really my concern,” I hedged, hoping that the white lie rolled easily enough off my tongue.

  She gave me a knowing smile that told me that she wasn’t buying my bull, but let it slide. “There’s toothpaste aplenty you can get from the quartermaster’s office,” she mentioned. “We use our own honey, and only sweeteners that have been tested.” When I raised my brows, she gave me a toothy grin. “Tested by whoever brings them to us, as we watch. Quite effective for rooting out people who think to swindle wares of dubious origins into our little haven here.”

  “Does that happen a lot?” I asked, somewhat taken aback. It was one thing to maybe be stupid when you were starving and a day away from death either way, but quite another to deliberately endanger hundreds of people.

  “Not anymore,” she replied, her tone wry. “So, want some of the baklava you’ve been staring at like it’s the answer to all of your questions? Here, have some.” She nudged a piece of honey-dripping pastry onto a small paper plate that she handed to me before she popped another piece into her mouth, grinning at me as she watched me watch her. Feeling incredibly stupid, I plucked the baklava from the plate and bit a tiny bit off—not because I expected it to be poisoned, but because I really, really wanted to savor the morsel of divine food.

  It tasted even better than I’d expected, making me moan rather unabashedly. “That’s so fucking good,” I assured the woman while I picked up the rest, trying to let it sit on my tongue for as long as possible.

  I got a benign smile for my trouble. “How much do you want? This is all I’ve got right here, but my sister is making a new batch later in the afternoon. With pistachios,” the woman said.

  I took my time replying, both because I hated having to admit that I had nothing to trade for it, but even more so because I was still busy sucking honeyed layers of dough from between my teeth. “Can’t really afford it.”

  The woman gave me a doubtful look for that. “You don’t look like a trader.”

  I eyed her curiously. “What’s that got to do with anything? And how can you tell?”

  She shrugged. “Your gear, and how you carry yourself. Having a knife and gun isn’t out of the ordinary, but most of the traders still treat their weapons with fear. Yours are part of you. Could tell the moment you approached. You constantly look around, try not to bump into anyone. Doesn’t exactly make you stick out, but it shows.” Then she got an honest-to-God phone out, briefly looking up from the display when she saw me stare at it. “Cell tower’s out of commission, of course, but we have WIFI here. A year ago I would have complained about the speed, but now it’s a miracle. Just tell me your group’s call sign and I’ll ring you up.” When I didn’t answer but just continued to stare at her, she snorted. “First time here, I see. And they didn’t tell you how the system works."

  “Nope.” That much I understood.

  Her smile didn’t falter as she rolled her eyes. “Gets so secondhand when you live here that you don’t consider that there are still people out there that don’t know,” she said. “You know that you get points when you fulfill some of the jobs Tamara and Mike post on the
open radio channel? You get some for good loot that you bring in, too. We keep records of those points, and you can then exchange them for everything that’s on sale here. Food, gear, favors—you know what I mean.”

  “I live with ten guys, and I can tell you where almost all of them are right now. I know,” I replied, not quite able not to make a face. Not because of the guys. They’d earned it. Considering that made me wonder if the Ice Queen would get up to similar shenanigans, or just continue her usual asexual habits. Just thinking of that woman and sex was akin to blasphemy.

  “Well, then. What did you get up to?” the woman asked.

  I considered our recent endeavors. “We hit a mall a couple weeks ago. Not sure how much that scored us but Tamara mentioned it was a good one.” Pausing, I wondered how much more I should divulge, but there wasn’t really a reason to keep quiet. “We took out the cannibals in Illinois. And we helped rid Harristown of their zombie siege, but I think we got blacklisted for that. Brought an injured guy through the gate who was infected. They didn’t really like that.”

  I’d tried not to talk too loudly, particularly as I explained that last part, but I could practically feel the eyes of everyone around snap to me, lively conversations dropping down to the odd murmur. Only for a few seconds, but it still made me antsy as hell. The woman’s eyes widened, but only a fraction. She didn’t seem like much could faze her anymore.

  “You’re one of the Lucky Thirteen?” she asked, doubt still lacing her voice, but disappearing after she taxed me once more and gave a jerky nod. “Told you, you have that look going on.” At least she didn’t know me by name, but I was suddenly twice as glad as usual that my name was right next to Nate’s on our registration form. I doubted that our fame—or infamy—reached as far as people knowing how many female members we had. Without that, she’d likely have called me a liar to my face.

  Her grin from before resurfaced as she leaned forward to take the paper plate from between my fingers and started piling it with more baklava, her phone forgotten on the counter. “You don’t think that the likes of you have to pay for anything here?” she taunted as she handed it back to me. “Even if there hadn’t been a massive bounty both on those monsters and that overrun town you wouldn’t. Some of those idiot townies might be afraid of you, but here, you’re heroes.”

  “Thanks,” I said as I accepted the plate from her, a little dumbfounded.

  “No, thank you,” she stressed, then added with a smile, “As I said, we get a fresh batch with pistachios in the evening. If you want some, I’ll put it aside for you. And drop by again before you leave, I’ll make sure to have something special to take on the road with you.”

  By then, most people around were ignoring me again, but I still got the odd look that followed me as I let the throng of people moving along the stalls sweep me away, happily munching my baklava. Sam had hated that stuff. Had always complained that it went straight to her hips, and it was so sweet that it was bordering on nasty. As always when something reminded me of her I felt a pang deep inside of me, but it got easier to ignore as time passed. People certainly didn’t give me a wide berth or anything like that.

  I spent the remainder of my hour browsing and munching my way through my treasured pastries. I stopped a few times but didn’t engage in conversation with anyone. The sweets made me drowsy, and in combination with the sun beating down on me, any excitement at taking everything in slowly waned. Also, the stench. Just because they had running water here didn’t mean that everyone believed in partaking, it seemed—me included, I had to admit. I decided then and there that once Jason was done showing us what else there was around, I’d hunt down those hot showers and get the most out of that. When Candy had mentioned them, I’d thought about sharing with Nate—which would also get me double the time out of the deal, not just for obvious reasons—but as I felt right now, I was happy to just relish it on my own. Maybe I could use our unexpected fame to get a few more tokens. I made a mental note to ask Jason about that later.

  Jason wasn’t hard to find, waiting for us where we’d parted ways before. Martinez was already there, a guitar case slung casually over his left shoulder. Burns was there, too, surprising me a little. That he was busy stuffing his face with potato wedges, not so much. All of them were chatting with each other casually, although I got the sense that Burns was trying to make fun of Martinez and his new—to us—musical ambitions. When they saw me approach they shut up, so their conversation could have been about me, too. I didn’t ask, and no one saw the need to update me.

  “Ready to see the rest of the base?” Jason asked. I nodded. “Then let’s go.”

  A light breeze picked up as we started around the markets and veered back to the control tower and other buildings clustered around, passing by what used to be base housing. Seeing the neat rows of houses, now interspersed with tents and makeshift shacks, reminded me of what Jaymie had said about having her own home. She’d sounded mighty proud of it—and likely rightly so—but I couldn’t help but feel like all these buildings were a liability. They might be reinforced, and if they had enough exits they might not be death traps, but in no way did they come close to the versatility of our cars. If worse came to worst, a house had to be abandoned. A car could simply be driven off. Sure, there were amenities like indoor plumbing and lots and lots of shelf space, but as I looked at the buildings, for the first time ever I felt like my life had become so much less complicated since all I considered “mine” fit into a pack I could easily carry on my shoulders. And not just less complicated—but a lot easier.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” Jason asked. I offered him a small smile back, but Burns was, again, quicker. What was it with him and interrupting me today?

  “Better not ask. It’s never a good thing when she gets quiet.”

  Ignoring Burns, I shook my head. “I just realized that as much as I may complain that I spend most of my days locked in a tin can or out facing mortal danger, I kind of like it that way. But that was before this idiot here opened his mouth and reminded me of what else my days are filled with, and I could so do without all that crap he’s constantly spewing.”

  “Oh you’re just jealous that my crap’s stickier than yours,” Burns said, his smile way too toothy for his own good.

  “Whatever,” I grunted.

  We passed by another stretch of tarmac, right next to the houses. Warehouses stood evenly spaced next to each other, and I didn’t need the scent of motor oil hanging in the air to identify that part as the garage and body shop district of Dispatch. I tried to look for a familiar vehicle, idly wondering what they were doing to my poor, tortured Rover, but it was useless. Most of the scavengers and a lot of the traders had settled on SUVs, and even those that had started out brightly colored—like ours—had long since received darker paint jobs. I didn’t see any of our people, either, which was probably for the best. The warmth and fullness radiating from my stomach made me feel kind of mellow, and next time I saw Nate, I fully intended to tear into him. Might just give myself another couple of hours to relax before I had to get back into the saddle.

  We reached the back side of the hangar where most of the operational stations interesting for us scavengers and the traders were situated, right where the cars apparently lined up to exit Dispatch through a similar gate than the one we’d come in through. There was the aforementioned post office and the quartermaster’s station where the official trading happened and people could call in their bounties, if they hadn’t already done so via radio. An entire section of the hangar was cordoned off, boxes of all shapes and sizes stacked up neatly on palettes. A couple of people armed with clipboards directed a never-ending line of departure-ready mercs to pack their allotted number of boxes to lug them to their cars—likely the pre-packaged provisions intended for the settlements. It was a well-oiled machine, and not one I felt particularly interested in joining. The skeptical looks on both Martinez and Burns’s faces made me guess that I wasn’t the only one who felt that playing
delivery service was a little beneath our qualifications.

  Last year I would have murdered for what was likely contained in these boxes. How things could change.

  Then we stepped deeper into the hangar and Jason angled toward the back wall. I stopped in my tracks when I realized what we were headed for.

  The Wall.

  It was obvious from where the name hailed, because for the most part, it really was just that—a wall. But the entirety of it, from the bottom to the very top, only reachable by scaffolding and ladders, was covered with photos, bits of paper, and the odd small knickknacks taped to it. Candles had been lit at the very bottom, so many that the entirety of the Wall was illuminated even with no natural light reaching that far from the open hangar doors. And in the very middle of the display was a tableau, easily ten by five feet tall, displaying three columns of cardboard slats. As my gaze skimmed over it, I realized that the left-most must have been the settlements, arranged according to size. The right column was numbers only, the state abbreviations next to them making me guess that they were total population numbers, if only rough estimates. Those for Hawaii and Alaska were missing. There was no final tally, but none of the numbers was in the six digits, a few not even reaching five. And the middle column, that was us—thirty-five names of scavenger groups. I’d heard Tamara mention a few but most of the call signs were unfamiliar to me. Jason’s group was at rank eleven. We were nineteen.

  “Don’t worry, your ranking will increase if you continue like this,” Jason remarked, tearing me out of my momentary reverie. His slight smile let me know that I’d been caught but he didn’t rib me for it. “You’re the first group that made it up there in under a month. Most of us have been farming since winter. If you stick around here long enough, you’ll likely run into someone who has a beef with you for pushing them right out of the top twenty.”

  “Exactly what I need,” I grunted, yet couldn’t help but feel just a little proud. “What’s with the papers up there?”